Lynn Flewelling - Shadows Return

Yhakobin hadn’t bothered with the blood flame spell for several days, and today was no exception. As soon as Alec downed the tincture, the alchemist motioned to the guards and went to the forge.

“Ilban? May I ask a question?” Alec asked quickly as the men closed in on him.

Surprised, Yhakobin turned back to him. “What is it?”

“That slave called Khenir says this is a purification. Please, Ilban, what is it you are purifying out of me?”

“He told you that, did he? Well, no matter.” Yhakobin chuckled as he turned and tossed the used amulet into the forge. “It’s nothing you’ll miss, I assure you. Here, I have a new book for you, a reward for your good behavior.”

Alec accepted the volume with a humble nod, and his guards led him away.

And so the days went: one to himself, and the next back to the workshop. The copper amulet was changed for one of something Yhakobin called sophic mercury, and he was made to drink Tincture of Quicksilver. This one tasted especially foul, and cramped his belly a little, but even so, he found he was feeling remarkably well in spite of his situation and the wretchedly bland food. His mind was wonderfully clear, and he felt stronger, even with the lack of meat.

He’d hoped to see Khenir again, but that day passed as usual, with no sign of him. With nothing else to do, he perused the new book. This one was a history of the coming of the first Hierophant. Plenimar had been his seat of power, according to this writer, and Skala had broken away, waging war unjustly to gain control of all the Three Lands, and the sacred isle of Kouros.

Alec read half of it out of sheer boredom, and then paced his cell restlessly, listening to the mundane noises from outside and wishing desperately he was out there. He’d happily work in the kitchen or split firewood, just for something to do!

The following day was just like the last. He was too restless to read, and instead spent the afternoon pacing and performing some strengthening exercises Seregil had taught him during the long winter months they’d spent in the cabin. He’d need to be fit when it came time to run. Without knowing it, the alchemist was preparing him well for that, he thought with a smile. How pleasant it would be to thank him at the point of a knife.

As he dropped into a crouch, preparing to practice his leaps, the slant of light across the bottom of the door caught his eye. There was something scratched into the wood, visible only from this angle. At first glance it looked like lines of random marks, but on closer inspection, he saw that it was writing and most of it in Aurënfaie. He had to lie on his belly to read it, with his body at a slant so as not to block the light.

The lettering was crude, almost unreadable, and Alec wondered whether the author had lain here, at the end of his strength, and what he had used to write with. He traced the line of scratches with a finger to find the beginning and read: “ Malis, son of Koris.” Just below it, he found another name that made his heart skip a beat: it read simply “Khenir, without hope.” And at the corner of the panel, another: “Ulia, daughter of Ponia, my curse be on…”

This one was unfinished. Were you interrupted, he wondered, or did you just give up?

He searched the bottom of the door and found over a dozen more such inscriptions, some with names, others anonymous expressions of fear, grief, and despair. Several of the curses mentioned Yhakobin by name. In other places, there were tiny crescent moons, Aura’s symbol, incised with a fingernail.

Here are the others, those who came before me, but where are they now? Why are Khenir and the children’s nurse the only ones left?

He found a clear spot and used his thumbnail to inscribe a crescent moon, and his own name: Alec, son of Amasa. He sat back, sucking his sore thumb. It had been an impulse, to add his name, but he suddenly wished he hadn’t. Those listed there, save Khenir, had all disappeared, their fates unknown. Was this his fate, as well?

His dreams were wild that night-all battles and killing and running through dark forests. He even dreamed of escaping and finding Seregil. In the dream, he stole through the house in the dark, checking door after door and finding them locked, until at last one upstairs opened and there was Seregil, waiting for him with open arms and that beloved crooked grin. Alec ran to him, but woke before they could touch. The dream had been so vivid that he lay awake for a long time, heart pounding, sunk in renewed despair. If he disappeared here, like those others, Seregil would never know what happened to him. He’d be nothing more than a name on the door, lost in the shadows of this wretched little room.

There was a brief delay at Yhakobin’s door the following morning. When the guards finally led him inside, he saw that the alchemist was not alone. A very tall bearded man dressed in a red surcoat stood by the little painted tent at the far end of the room. His eyes were black and hard, and he fixed Alec with a sharp look as he took his usual place near the anvil. The stranger spoke with Yhakobin for a moment, looking at Alec all the while. When they were finished, Yhakobin turned to Alec and smiled.

“You are looking very well! Let me have my drop first.” Yhakobin was in unusually high spirits today and Alec wondered if it had anything to do with the mysterious visitor.

Alec held out his finger, uncomfortably aware of the stranger’s intense gaze.

Yhakobin pricked it and repeated the blood spell. This time the flame burned a vivid blue and lasted for some moments. He spoke to the visitor again, obviously pleased.

Apparently satisfied, the other man bowed and took his leave.

“Excellent! Better even than I’d dared hope,” said Yhakobin.

Alec wasn’t sure if he was referring to the color of the blood flame or his visitor’s reaction to it. “If I may, Ilban, who was that man?”

“That, my young friend, was Duke Theris Urghan, cousin to and legate of his Majesty, the Overlord. He was here inquiring after my progress with you. And I must say, I was able to give him a very good report.” He took Alec’s chin between his fingers and inspected his face closely, turning it this way and that. “Oh yes, much better than expected. And I daresay you’re feeling quite well, too.”

The alchemist’s elation made Alec nervous. What was it Yhakobin was seeing that pleased him so much? Alec thought of those who’d left their names on the door. Had they seen this same gleam in the man’s eyes?

“My, you are serious today.” Yhakobin took a polished metal mirror from one of the tables and held it up in front of him. “See what I’ve done for you, boy, and show a bit of gratitude.”

Alec took one look and let out a choked gasp, shocked at the stranger he saw in the reflection. Far from growing pale from lack of meat, his coloring had heightened. His eyes looked bluer, and his hair, though lank from lack of washing, seemed to shine a brighter gold.

But that wasn’t the only change. He looked more ’faie somehow, as if the very planes of his face had been altered.

“I don’t understand!” he gasped, touching his cheek with superstitious awe. “What have you done to me, Ilban?”

Yhakobin held out the daily draught to him, but Alec balled his fists on his knees and shook his head. “Why do I look different?”

“Not so different, and nothing that will do you the least bit of harm, as I promised. I am a man of my word, Alec. Behave now, and drink this without a fuss. It’s far too valuable to spill.”

“No!”

He knew it was futile, but he fought anyway as the guards held him down and pinched his nose shut. Yhakobin thrust the leather funnel down his throat and poured the contents of the cup in. They held him until he gagged down every drop, then dragged him up to his knees at Yhakobin’s feet.